One of the more distinctive things about The Humans is that there isn’t a big last act blow-up; there isn’t a Chekhov’s gun or a bout of undue violence as is usual for this genre of theatre -the single setting, small cast dysfunctional family drama very popular for one-acts or amateur performance groups. Stephen Karam’s Pulitzer-nominated, Tony-winning play The Humans seems to fit that type fairly faithfully: the story of a family gathering at the claustrophobic new apartment of their second daughter and her boyfriend at Thanksgiving. But it eschews some of the more familiar trappings of that narrative format, keeping at bay any melodrama and finding experimental ways to present its’ mood. And in setting his play to film, Karam imbues it even more expression, directing with very particular and peculiar choices, not all of which work, but that certainly give it the feel of something greater than just an awkward family squabble.
From even the opening scene Karam makes you feel uncomfortably interred, as he keeps you at a distance from Richard Jenkins’ Erik looking out a window in the next room. The movie is full of such wide shots and negative space and faint dialogue that Altman-like overlaps to keep the audience in necessary moments removed from the characters. It entraps you in this empty, hazardous, and labyrinthine apartment above a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan that Brigid (Beanie Feldstein) and Richard (Steven Yeun) have just moved into. There is no escape, you have no idea where the exit is, as much as the geography of the place is pored over it never makes sense logically. Even that window that Erik looks out on only reveals a shabby alley behind the restaurant. And the narrow hallways are rendered especially cramped whenever the need arises to move Grandma Momo (June Squibb), generally confined to a wheelchair and already suffering from severe Alzheimer’s.
The atmosphere created by this is daunting, Karam in translating his play to screen has made the apartment where everything is set the main imposing character that overpowers all the others. And we’re privy to the many ways the place is not ideal: sure, it’s got a neat spiral staircase between floors, but the toilet lid in the bathroom is broken, there are stains on the wallpaper and a griminess in the ceilings, there isn’t much of a street view, the laundry machines next door are quite loud, and there could very well be a cockroach infestation. Plus, there are those dangers that Karam eerily foreshadows: the unreliable lights upstairs and a gross-looking bubble in the wallpaper near the dismal pipes. It doesn’t seem to bother Brigid and Richard much, determined to make do given the affordability of the place. The family, especially Erik, wishes they weren’t settling here and would rather they remain close to home in Philadelphia. It’s one of the many topics of conversation and argument that the uncanny place is ultimately the backdrop for.
As in all of these stage-oriented relationship dramas, the tension and seriousness of things builds gradually as we learn a little bit about each of the characters and their inter-personal conflicts. Each of the ways they relate to each other speaks to their own anxieties and priorities -with only Richard being generally polite and unmoved by anything. One of the more curious things is the steady realization that the parents are dedicated Catholics, mother Deirdre (Jayne Houdyshell -the only cast member who originated her part on stage) giving Brigid a housewarming gift of a small Virgin Mary. The parents occasionally press Brigid half-seriously about going to church in a manner familiar to me as a pastors’ son. But while it’s taken in stride, it is also clearly a point of contention for Brigid and her older sister Amy (Amy Schumer), a lesbian struggling to recover from a recent devastating break-up.
Schumer’s performance, her dramatic debut, is probably the most surprising in an ensemble of strong turns from everyone. In a couple sequences, she taps into a real pitiable grief at the loss of this relationship that meant so much to her, and that brokenness is tangible even when masked by a certain contented attitude. Feldstein likewise manages to turn her more typically comic inclinations into a compelling mix of insecurity and independence, while Yeun in a subtler performance than he’s generally given in recent years, plays well that obligatory cordiality in the face of heated exchanges (and particularly channeling his role as Speckle on Tuca & Bertie). Houdyshell exhibits significant range as her mood fluctuates over the course of the piece, and simultaneously present and absent, Squibb draws upon your every sympathy. But it’s probably Jenkins who most gets the chance to shine, in part as the focal character for longer stretches. Erik is the most uneasy, for reasons beyond just the state of the apartment as we eventually learn, but it’s effect on him is particularly stifling, and Jenkins, rare to disappoint, embodies that discomfort clashing with patriarchal instinct incredibly well. He, and perhaps Schumer, will be this movies’ awards-season pushes.
Karam’s screenplay may be as well, which not only organically relates these characters but takes into account details about family conversations, family reunions, not always observed in cinema. There a number of micro-aggressions throughout, or awkward attempts at understanding -Deirdre at one point brings up a recent gay suicide in their hometown because news stories like it are seemingly the only way she can relate to Amy’s sexuality. Erik recalls to Richard a trip to New York with Amy during hurricane season that had a mildly traumatic effect on him, while later Brigid references it with irreverent thankfulness for its’ part in ultimately bringing her to the city. Little instances of disconnection and miscommunication like this pop up throughout, in particular with respect to the parents’ relationship to their daughters. And the script does well with planting little references such as to the parents’ beach house or Brigid’s career as a concert musician that are brought back with unsuspecting relevance. Each character is dealing with a recent professional or personal setback, and yet they all come out naturally. All the while Karam continues to direct with intent. Some of his visual choices are rather banal, particularly a tendency towards lingering close-ups from behind that might channel a paranoid mood but are at odds with the direction of a scene. And there are certain limitations of the story’s theatrical origins he can’t quite work around. But what is impressive is his movement the camera in long takes and between walls and levels, keeping up the sensation of something formidable, material or otherwise, lurking in wait.
It does pay off, and the last act becomes a kind of surreal horror film as the ever-present claustrophobia overwhelms the cast (and Erik especially) as the apartment essentially consumes them. The terror comes across terrifically through Jenkins’ panic, the disorienting sounds and imagery -even while the utter blackness of the sequence makes large chunks of it indecipherable (though it is put to good use as a contrast to a dusk skyline when in the midst of this Brigid and Richard escape to the roof). The symbolic significance of this part of the film though is captivating, coming on the heels of perhaps the biggest revelation that seems to burst the dam on this family’s trust. Erik experiences the psychological consequences of it through a deterioration of his sense of space within an already uncomfortable environment. It leaves you with a spooky feeling.
The title The Humans would imply Karam sees something ubiquitous in this family, and there is a degree of that for sure -especially for that dominant white suburban middle-class of families that more often see children relocating to urban spaces or disavowing familial religion. But it’s also a movie distinctly about New York, its’ anxieties reflect circumstances of that city more acutely than anywhere else. Either way though the dynamics are discomforting yet cogent, the bristling drama latent yet heavy, and the harrowing apartment, indicative of turbulent emotions and desperation, a rather ferocious haunted house.
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